Saturday, July 23, 2016

But she didn’t die.Forced to escape to Somniare, a dream landscape, Remy must somehow survive living nightmares, and endless torment without using her magic. Her only hope for freedom is to hitch a ride with a human back into reality, tricking the poor creature into believing no harm will befall them.

Author Bio:
D.T. Dyllin is a bestselling author who writes both paranormal and contemporary romance. Anything with a love story is her kryptonite. Her obsession with affairs-of-the-heart is what first drove her to begin twisting her own tales of scorching romance.
D.T. was born and raised in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. (Black & Gold for life, baby!) She now lives in Little Rock, Arkansas with her husband and two spoiled German Shepherds.

Friday, July 22, 2016

An Unquiet HeartAlone in her tower, Princess Oria has spent too long studying her people’s barbarian enemies, the Destrye—and neglected the search for calm that will control her magic and release her to society. Her restlessness makes meditation hopeless and her fragility renders human companionship unbearable. Oria is near giving up. Then the Destrye attack, and her people’s lives depend on her handling of their prince…

A Fight Without HopeWhen the cornered Destrye decided to strike back, Lonen never thought he’d live through the battle, let alone demand justice as a conqueror. And yet he must keep up his guard against the sorceress who speaks for the city. Oria’s people are devious, her claims of ignorance absurd. The frank honesty her eyes promise could be just one more layer of deception.

A Savage BargainFighting for time and trust, Oria and Lonen have one final sacrifice to choose… before an even greater threat consumes them all.

Oria squinted into the heat shimmer rising in the distance beyond the high walls of the city. Maybe if she looked long and hard enough, the weapons of the clashing armies would give off a telltale glitter or the shouts of the men would echo back. But, even though her high tower gave her one of the longest views in Bára, she remained blind and deaf, stuck in her chambers, remote from the battle underway.

Just as she’d lived most of her life isolated from the rest of the world.

Despite the lack of other evidence of war, the hot wind seemed to carry an unfamiliar smell to her rooftop garden. Layered among the scents of sand, the brackish bay, and distant ocean came something new. Something like roasting meat, redolent of rage, despair, and determination. An unsettling combination unlike anything she’d ever experienced. But until this, no one had attempted to attack Bára in her lifetime. Not for a long time before that either, according to the histories.

She paced the gilded balcony as Chuffta, perched on the rail, watched her without moving, green eyes sliding back and forth as if he were watching a xola match.

“You realize you walk much and get nowhere,” he said in her head.

“Yes, yes—the story of my life,” she snapped at her Familiar. “Besides, it’s not as if I need to conserve my energy just to hide in my rooms while the city falls.”

“Bára will not fall,” Queen Rhianna said in a mild tone. Her nimble fingers never faltered as they wove seven needles threaded with different colors in an intricate embroidery, a casually powerful exhibition of her magical skill, her the golden metal mask that covered her face without eye holes demonstrating her ability to see in other ways. “It has not these many years and there’s no reason to believe it will now. Don’t put attention on a result you do not want. You know better than to articulate such thoughts, lest they manifest in truth.”

Oria frowned at her mother. “I don’t know any such thing, but let’s try it out. Everything is fine! The Destrye army has vanished into thin air and we’re no longer under attack.”

“You’ve never met a Destrye and you fear them, so your logic is faulty,” Chuffta pointed out.

She did—and fear of their ancient barbarian enemy drove her to rudeness, as Chuffta obliquely noted. Sometimes her Familiar’s wisdom grated on her. Okay, a lot of the time, but he offered sincere advice and helped her when no one else could. True growth is uncomfortable, even painful, the temple taught. She made herself stop and stroke the winged lizard’s soft white scales between his eyes. “You’re right. I apologize, to both of you,” she added to her mother.

“What is Chuffta right about?” her mother asked.

“That I’m afraid of the Destrye without knowing any, so my logic is bad. Though there are plenty of stories and illustrations to inform that opinion.” Oria’s longtime morbid fascination with the warrior race that shared their continent had led her to ignore the texts she was meant to study in order to linger over the vivid drawings of the Destrye with their big bodies, darkly gnarled hair, black-furred garments, eyes wild in their cruel faces. So unlike the Bárans.

“As there are similarly many stories, diagrams, demonstrations, and lessons on how magic works,” her mother was saying in a placid yet pointed tone. “You may not yet have access to all of the temple’s knowledge, but you know the basic laws. If you paid as much attention to those as to the gory histories, you might be making more progress than you are.”

“Yes, but they never really explain anything. Like ‘you’ll understand hwil only when you master hwil.’ How in Sgatha is that remotely helpful?”

“Some things may only be understood through experience. You know that we would tell you if it could be put into words.”

Oria did know that, not that it helped. “None of this has anything to do with my original question. How can you sit and sew not knowing what’s going on out there?” She flung an impotent hand at the desert beyond the city walls.

Her mother raised her featureless mask toward Oria. “Is pacing about like a wild thing giving you information on how the battle goes?”

“Maybe not, but it makes me feel better than sitting still does.”

“I know it’s difficult for you now, but once you master hwil, all will become clear. You’ll understand that there’s infinite motion in stillness, and you’ll be able to channel the energy that makes you so restless into its intended purpose. You will find great relief in channeling your sgath to the common pool And, following that, you can begin to seek your perfect partner and perhaps find a temple-blessed marriage. Once connected to him, you will be able to express your magic to its greatest extent, as Sgatha intended.”

Oria turned to stare into the distance again, choking back her impatience. Queen Rhianna, like the other sorcerers and sorceresses of Bára who wore the masks of their office, exemplified hwil, the art of peacefulness under duress. Sgath only flows through a calm mind, Oria’s teachers explained again and again. Though they never said it out loud, in the last years their featureless golden masks seemed to hold disapproval—and the resignation of those who’d given up on her.

Oria could never sit through a full meditation session. Her body unfailingly thrummed with restlessness to get up, to do something. Her mind dashed from thought to thought, like the jewelbirds in the garden, pausing in its mad flight only to hover over the worry that she’d never find the key, never qualify to receive a mask of her own. Never realize her mother’s patient hopes.

If course, the possibility that she ever would grew less likely with each passing day since she’d never even glimpsed this perfect state of hwil where all became clear. Of them all, only her mother remained confident that she could.

Would it be so terrible if she didn’t, beyond disappointing her mother’s unshakeable belief? Her three brothers had all passed the final testing, each possessing enough power and control to succeed their father, needing only marriages to solidify their positions as heirs. They’d all taken their masks before they were twenty—including her baby brother Yar the year before, a prodigy at sixteen—while Oria trailed miserably far behind, facing her twenty-second birthday within weeks.

Truly, the blow to her pride rankled. And in her secret heart, more than a little unbecoming jealousy, nursed all those years as her brothers practiced the showy battle magics below her tower, so she could at least watch. They’d meant to entertain her, not deepen her envy.

Oh, her teachers could go on about how the male grienmagic was easier to learn; that it burgeoned in young men, pushing up from the ground below Bára like the sap in the trees in springtime. How they only had to practice restraint, focus, and release, and that such things came naturally to men, while women’s magic worked in the reverse. Instead of exploding outward, sgath drew in and received.

Thus the emphasis on meditation, calmness, and peacefulness. A woman should be like a serene lake, always refilling from those deep wells, so she could nurture with her magic. The sacred blessing of creation belonged to women, a divine obligation that provided Bára and her sister cities with the blessing of fruits, greens, and grains in the desert.

In the most exalted partnership, a sgath sorceress and a grien sorcerer married with temple blessing, their magics complementing and enhancing each other in a perfectly balanced flow. She to receive and grow magical energy, he to focus and release it. For this reason, the temple frowned on same-sex partnerships as not ideal, though they weren’t strictly forbidden. Many settled for lesser marriages, not temple-blessed, and every person regardless of gender possessed some sgath and some grien, in different measures. Even the purest and strongest sgath carried a seed of grien, just as their parent moons, Sgatha and Grienon, waxed and waned, one around the other’s orbit. Diligent study led a sorcerer or sorceress to develop his or her best self, all the better to serve Bára.

And that best self would be reflected in a temple-blessed marriage, such as her parents enjoyed. An ideal none of Oria’s brothers had yet achieved. Something she could be first in, if only she could find a way to be still long enough to grasp the essence of hwil.

If only.

As the partnered sorceresses of the city did their half of the work of defense, the halcyon shimmer of women’s magic pooled below Oria’s tower, radiating from their stations on the walls, flowing out like a reverse bore tide. Queen Rhianna would have been with them if she hadn’t elected to keep her daughter company. As it was, between the immense power of her sgath and her temple-blessed marriage with the king, she could be anywhere and feed him magic, a constant vital flow Oria sensed but could no more access than she could the battle taking place leagues away.

Thus it remained the sorceresses’ job to stay within the protective circle of Bára while the men went forth to battle the Destrye with their powerful grien, fueled by sgath.

“This system has worked for centuries,” Chuffta told her. “In this way the cities have survived many onslaughts.”

“Like you’ve been around for any more of them than I have,” Oria retorted in a dry tone, but scratched Chuffta’s wing joints where he couldn’t easily reach them. He arched his neck, purring as she relieved an itch.

Her mother had no trouble following that thought. “Chuffta may be young, as you are, but the derkesthai have stood by and advised many a queen and princess of our line while our armies fought in the distance. I know you’d fret less if you could be directing your energy to feeding power to our sorcerers, but your time will come. The women in our family are like—”

“Like the fruit that ripens in the dry season, long after the rains have passed,” Oria chimed along with the familiar adage. “I know, I know. Unless they don’t bloom at all.” Like her various aunts, exiled to live in other walled cities, far from the temple and the source of all magic.

Queen Rhianna tilted her face up, as if looking at her daughter, though she wouldn’t be literally. The smooth golden mask of the sorceress gazed at her with eyeless serenity. “Or all the more powerful for the slow ripening. I would not have made the journey to invite Chuffta to be your Familiar and guide for when you take your mask unless I believed you would find your magic. Nor would you be able to hear him if you were mind-dead.”

“Nor would I have agreed to put up with you for any other reason,” Chuffta teased in his dry mind-voice.

“I know you love me. You think I’m charming, brilliant—and funny.” She stroked the winged lizard’s softly scaled hide, always soothing with its sueded texture. Of all her fears, the possibility of losing Chuffta worried her most. They’d been together since her seventh birthday. He was the greatest gift she’d ever received. If she failed to take her mask, he’d have no reason to stay with her. She could deal with a life without being a sorceress, even with a mind-dead half-marriage without magical completion—though what an unhappy life that would be—but living without the rustle of Chuffta’s thoughts in her head? A desolate prospect, indeed.

If only it were that easy. Like a jewelbird going to the wrong blossoms, Oria’s thoughts seemed to forever return to the worst-case scenario. The dreadful potential outcomes of any situation filled her head far more readily than any other. Unbidden, they sprang to life in her mind. So much so that she diligently hid the extent of them from Chuffta, her teachers, and especially her mother. A woman’s sgath magic could turn toxic, undermining as easily as it nurtured. If they knew how poisonous her thoughts could be, they’d stop training her altogether. The techniques they taught were far too potent to chance in irresponsible hands.

Another warning repeated far too often for comfort.

It all came down to this: She must learn to calm and quiet her mind. To be like her mother and live serenely behind the mask of a priestess, with no desire to pace in restless agitation, only happy thoughts running through her mind, not dread of the future.

Focusing on positive images, she determinedly rehearsed them in her head. The Destrye would go back to their sterile and magicless land. The battle would be won, perhaps so soundly that the fierce warrior people would never come after hers again. Bára would be safe and her father would peacefully hold his throne for many joyful years to come. Her brothers would continue the elaborate courtship and testing rituals to find their ideal wives among the priestesses of the temple, which she wanted for them with all her heart. (Never mind that little corner blackened with jealousy—she’d excise it.) Focus on the result you want. And she, herself, a paragon of peaceful maturity with vast powers of concentration, would find her hwil and receive her mask. Somewhere out there, her perfect match awaited, too. Perhaps she already knew him, and he only needed her to grow just a bit more so they could join in a blissful, eternal union.

A fine hope. Though more unlikely with every passing day. Especially with the Destrye attacking.

“When will they send news?” she muttered at the horizon.

This time, no one answered her.

Guest Blog

A Romance That Isn’t

Should I be calling LONEN’S WAR a Fantasy Romance? I say
yes! (After all, I did and I am still.) But some reviewers are saying it’s not
a romance. Which is fine – totally their call to say so. Amusingly, I’m usually
first in line to call a book on not being a romance for not giving me an HEA
(Happy Ever After) or HFN (Happy For Now.)

With this book though... I’m going to argue that it ends
with an HFN. Yeah, it’s a tenuous one, but there’s hope in our hearts for an
HEA in the future. My point is that the *series* is Fantasy Romance, even if
this first book isn’t exactly.

See, the thing is that I wanted to write a slow-burn
romance. Really slow, so the movement from enemies to lovers takes a long time.
As in over a number of books. This means that book one is ... pretty much zero
romance, right? Mostly enemies, with a few glimpses that this could change in
the future.

So, okay, this means that book one is really Fantasy. Maybe
high, epic or sword & sorcery, depending on how you slice these things.
Still the series arc is firmly built on this marriage of alliance.

Can one book in a series be a different genre than the rest?

I don’t know. It’s worth contemplating, though.

What say you all?

Jeffe Kennedy is an award-winning author whose works include
non-fiction, poetry, short fiction, and

novels. She has been a Ucross
Foundation Fellow, received the Wyoming Arts Council Fellowship for Poetry, and
was awarded a Frank Nelson Doubleday Memorial Award. Her essays have appeared
in many publications, including Redbook.

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Acquired Taste – Dee Carney When celebrity chef August Jaeger mixes it up with a curvy food blogger, they both realize what they want isn’t on any menu.

Dirty Deeds – Allie Cooke Four days, a million dollars, the performance of a lifetime…but what happens when they stop faking it? Dirty Deeds ain’t always dirt cheap.

Scorched Desire — Lexxie Couper When a Harley-riding hunk literally sweeps her off her feet, Jilly Parker finds herself transported to a world of dragon shifters, carnal lust, and fated love.

Pretty In Ink – Merryn Dexter Sexy, sweet Aubrey Jensen is everything a semi-reformed bad boy could want – but sometimes getting what you want doesn’t give you what you need.

Hot Tamale – Tilly Greene Derek Schrizer is a retired Marine looking to get a new tattoo, not reconnect with his first love, the curvy sexy Cat.

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Marked By Ice – Dawn Montgomery His only job is to protect her at all costs, but who will protect the big bad wolf’s heart once he gets a taste of her sweet lips?

Like a Boss – Quinn Proving she’s more than a smart mouth and sexy curves would be a hell of a lot easier if she wasn’t so distracted by her sexy new boss.

Kinky Curves – Jodi Redford The queen of dirty talk. The king of grind. Love is about to get real filthy.

Another Man’s Treasure – Dee Tenorio A widowed actor and single dad pulls out all the stops to show a single mom just how well a woman can be treasured.

Thursday, July 21, 2016

Taboo. Wrong. Off limits. I know the drill. I know the rules. But damn, if he doesn’t get under my skin. And into my bed.

There’s no reason for a woman like me, Successful, established, independent, To ever be sleeping with a younger man. A younger man with a hard, rugged, sculptured body. A body that can go all night. All night.

I can’t resist, can’t turn him down. Can’t walk away. Because I’ve never known pleasure like this. Chase Nolan walked into my life and disrupted my perfect little world. And made it so much better.

Enjoy it while you can, Jillian. Because there’s no way there’s a future for us. After all, is he barely even legal?

Bree Dahlia is an unconventional romance junkie. She loves reading it but adores writing it even more. Her stories range from lighthearted to sizzling with that satisfying Happily Ever After ending and a touch of the unexpected. She favors themes of friendship, forgiveness, and unconditional love with alpha characters and eccentric tastes.
She holds degrees that she does nothing with and has experienced a long string of jobs that have left her unfulfilled. Only as an author, has she truly found her passion. When not crafting stories in her small Wisconsin town, she hikes unbeaten trails, watches hockey games, and wishes she didn’t detest cooking so much.
Dahlia is her middle name. Her last name is more suitable for a horror writer.
You can sign up for her new release newsletter at http://eepurl.com/PeU-r

“At 18 I had pennies, but money didn’t make me bold. At 19 I had dollars, but it didn’t dull the pain of being sold. At 20 I had hundreds, but then I met him and was found. At 21 I had thousands, but all I wanted was to be bound.”“At 23 I had dollars, but life changed and made me rich. At 25 I had hundreds, but it wasn’t enough to stop my killing itch. At 27 I had thousands, but my reputation didn’t set me free. At 29 I had millions, but I met her and could finally see.”
Tasmin was killed on her 18th birthday. She had everything planned out. A psychology degree, a mother who pushed her to greatness, and a future anyone would die for. But then her murderer saved her life, only to sell her into a totally different existence.
Elder went from penniless to stinking rich with one twist of fate. His lifetime of crime and shadows of thievery are behind him but no matter the power he now wields, it’s not enough. He has an agenda to fulfil and he won’t stop until it’s complete.
But then they meet.
A beaten slave and a richly dressed thief. Money is what guided their separate fates. Money is what brought them together. And money is ultimately what destroys them.
She was poor.
He was rich.
Together…they were bankrupt.

Pennies (Dollars #1) is a DARK ROMANCE. This means there will be hard to read scenes, graphic language, and sexual content (both implied and explicitly written). Please do not read if falling in love with a man who dresses in monster robes rather than knightly armour offends you. This is not a fairy-tale. This is a black abyss that must be climbed blind before deserving the light. Along with literary darkness, this is book one of a five book series. Each subsequent novel will be released every few months (so your fingernails don’t tire holding onto the cliff-hanger), and each is full-length. Please also remember not all answers are given and not every character is as they seem. There are beasts adorned in angel clothing and angels hiding in beast’s fur.
Remember that.
You have been warned.
Don’t say you weren’t told.
Read at your own peril.
Fall in love with Elder Prest at your own risk.
Are you ready?
You sure?
You really, really sure?
Okay then…enter the world of pennies and dollars.

EXCERPT

FREEDOM.
Such a modest word.
It carried very little importance for those who had it. But for those who didn’t, it was the most precious, prized, and promised hope of all.
I supposed I was lucky to know what freedom felt like.
For eighteen years, I’d been free. Free to learn what I wanted, befriend who I liked, and flirt with boys who passed my rigorous criteria.
I was a simple girl with ideals and dreams, encouraged by society to believe nothing could hurt me, that I should strive for an excellent career, and no one could stop me. Rules would keep me safe, police would keep the monsters away, and I could remain innocent and naïve to the darkness of the world.
Freedom.
I had it.
But then, I lost it.
Murdered, resuscitated, and sold.
I lost my freedom for so many years.
Until the day he entered my cage.
Him, with the black eyes and blacker soul.
The man who challenged my owner.
And set my imprisonment on an entirely different path.

Author Bio:

Pepper Winters is a NYT and USA Today International Bestseller. She wears many roles. Some of them include writer, reader, sometimes wife. She loves dark, taboo stories that twist with your head. The more tortured the hero, the better, and she constantly thinks up ways to break and fix her characters. Oh, and sex... her books have sex.
She loves to travel and has an amazing, fabulous hubby who puts up with her love affair with her book boyfriends. She's also honoured to wear the IndieReader Badge for being a Top 10 Indie Bestsellers, best BDSM series voted by the SmutClub, and recently signed a two book deal with Grand Central. Her books are currently being translated into numerous languages and will be in bookstores in the near future.
To be the first to know of upcoming releases, please join Pepper's Newsletter (she promises never to spam or annoy you.)

From the moment Detective Caitlyn
Decker arrives at the scene, she knows this crime is anything but a routine
killing. The cryptic note. The contradictory evidence. The violence. There’s no
doubt in her mind her life’s about to get complicated. Add Special Agent Deacon
McGraw into the mix—a man she’s had an unfortunate crush on for the past six
months—and it’s shaping up to get downright messy.

Deacon has waited twenty years to
solve his father’s murder. If his calculations are correct, this recent killing
is connected to it, and the start of something grisly. After nearly convincing
himself his father’s outlandish theories on a cold case were nothing more than
a slow slide into madness, Deacon’s suddenly faced with a harsh truth—no one’s
going to believe him, either.

Caitlyn’s not sure what to make
of Deacon’s claims. But she’s willing to give him a chance—one that quickly
translates into more than just a working relationship. Becoming lovers carries
more risks than simple heartbreak. One miscalculation, or a loss of faith, and
they just might lose their souls.

Detective
Caitlyn Decker shook her head before pressing her fingers against the bridge of
her nose, closing her eyes as pain throbbed through her temples, not that it’d
do much good. The headache had already taken root, somehow pulsing with every
beat of her heart. Nothing but time or drugs would touch it now. And, somehow,
downing half a bottle of Motrin while working a murder scene didn’t seem like a
viable solution. She glanced at the paper again, rereading the words scribbled
across the crisp white sheet.

Some choices are
easy, some aren’t. Can you guess which one this was?

Christ, she’d
officially seen it all.

A male snort
drew her attention, and she shifted her focus as Detective David Truman knelt
beside the body, giving it the once-over. He gazed up at her, exhaling loudly
as he gained his feet. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, nodding at one of
the CSI technicians as they snapped some photographs.

He turned to
face her. “Not exactly the kind of case you want to grab at the end of a shift,
huh?”

She shrugged.
“Thinking there isn’t a right time for a case like this, period. We both know
that note means trouble.”

Truman glanced
at the paper, nodding. “Just another Wednesday as far as I’m concerned.”

She shook her
head. “Fine. Keep secrets.” She toed the pavement. “So, you aren’t on shift for
another two hours. Why the early start?”

“I needed to get
out of the house, and I heard the call come through over the radio. Thought I’d
check it out…see if you wanted me to take it for you.”

“And let you
have all the fun? That’s crazy talk.” She nudged his elbow. “You and Clare
okay? We can go grab coffee after if you’d like.”

“God, who are
you, Dr. Phil? I’m fine.” He glanced over her shoulder, cursing. “Looks like
the feds just pulled up. You sure you don’t want me to take this? Their
presence here probably means a joint endeavor, and seeing as you got stuck with
the last one…”

Caitlyn did her
best to calm the sudden pounding of her heart. The last thing she needed was to
sound breathless. And all because of who might have just arrived. “I’m good.
But I can count on your help if I need it, right?”

“It’ll cost
you.”

“It always
does.”

Truman gave her
a mock salute before trudging off toward his car. She heard him murmur a token
hello to the fed he’d mentioned, the gravelly reply beading her skin with a
sudden rash of goose bumps. She took a few soothing breaths, only to jump when
a rumble of thunder sounded off to the east, the promise of rain heavy in the
early morning air. A nearby streetlight buzzed as it flickered, casting odd
shadows against the brick building before settling, again. She turned up her
collar against a blast of cold, damp air, tucking her hands in her pockets.
After a few weeks of summer-like weather, the sudden shift into more typical
spring temperatures felt even colder than usual. Or maybe it was just her. A
reminder of how little else she had in her life to make the endless string of
homicides bearable. To chase away the incessant chill that seemed to have
settled bone-deep inside her.

Footsteps
scuffed the pavement behind her as the fed moved into her peripheral view. She
didn’t turn to greet the man. Couldn’t. Not when her face felt more than
flushed. Special Agent Deacon McGraw—or Deke as he usually went by—headed the
violent crimes unit for the Seattle branch of the Federal Bureau of
Investigation, and he seemed to be the bureau’s prime choice in interagency
ventures. Not that she had a clue why he was here. As far as she was concerned,
this was just a routine killing in an alley of one of the poorer districts the
city had to offer. Nothing to suggest it fell under federal jurisdiction. Her
gaze strayed to the paper lying beside the victim’s bloody body, the words
glaring at her. Perhaps routine wasn’t quite the correct term.

Deke cleared his
throat as he crouched beside the corpse, using a pen to twist the paper
slightly. He cocked his head to the side, glancing at her as he stood. “Just
what this city needs, a killer with a twisted sense of humor.”

Caitlyn crossed
her arms over her chest. “I’ll admit. I found the note…odd.”

He chuckled.
“Odd? It’s creepy as hell, though I think we both know the answer to his
question. The way the throat’s been sliced damn near through to the vic’s
spinal column, the arcs of blood against the wall, not to mention the fact the
guy’s been virtually gutted…thinking it wasn’t a hard choice for the bastard
that did this.”

“I don’t
know…all that defensive bruising along his arms, the marks on his head. The guy
fought hard. Could suggest reluctance on the part of our perp.”

“Or the killer’s
not as strong as he thought he was.”

Caitlyn snorted,
waving at the guy spread out across the black asphalt. “The victim’s easily
two-twenty and those muscles aren’t fake. The guy obviously put in some heavy
hours at the gym. And that faded tattoo on his wrist means he was part of the
Fifth Street gang at some point. That kind of street tough doesn’t ever really
go away. Thinking there aren’t many people who’d even consider taking him on.
Lord knows, I wouldn’t want to have met him in a dark alley.”

“At least, not
to fight.”

“Seriously,
Deacon? He’s not even cold, yet.”

“But he was
pretty. Thinking guys like him would want that noticed, even under these
circumstances.” He winked at her. “Especially by a sexier than hell cop.”

“That’s
detective to you, G-man. Besides he’s not my type.”

“That so? What
is your type, Detective?”

“Still breathing
would be a good start.”

Deke grinned,
the simple gesture making her heart race. Damn, but the man was handsome.
Shaggy brown hair, the perfect amount of scruff, and those eyes—so fucking blue
it made her stomach flip-flop. She’d had an unfortunate crush on the guy since
they’d worked an assignment together six months ago, and bumping into him every
few weeks on any potential crossover cases only made the fire in the pit of her
gut burn hotter.

She drew in a
much-needed breath, turning to fully face him. “So, there something about this
case I’m unaware of? A reason I’m going to have to play nice with the bureau?”

Deacon placed
his hand over his heart, the wind tousling his hair around his face. “And here
I thought you liked playing nice with me. That hurts, Caitlyn.”

She did her best
to ignore the way his words curled over her flesh, making her skin prickle as
if he’d actually touched her. Damn, she shouldn’t react to him like this.

She glanced at
the body again. “Is this where you tell me there’s a slew of other bodies just
like this one scattered across the country? All with cryptic messages that make
your skin crawl? Which makes this whole damn mess some jurisdictional bullshit?
Because honestly, if that note is any indication of what direction this case is
going to take, I might be inclined to just hand it over to you. No fighting. No
whining to my superiors.”

His expression
sobered, the lines of his face becoming slightly harsher. He scanned the
alleyway, motioning her to join him in a relatively unoccupied area off to
their left. Caitlyn followed him, unsure whether it was curiosity or the
inklings of fear making her stomach tighten. Or maybe it was just him. He
stopped when he reached a dumpster, looking up and down the narrow road again
before focusing on her. Those crystal blue eyes of his made her breath hitch,
the intensity of his expression bordering on lethal.

She reached up,
palming his shoulder, wondering why he suddenly seemed so serious. As if the
previous banter had just been for show. “Hey, you okay?”

“I was better
before I got here.”

She pulled her
hand back, tucking it in her pocket. “Thanks, Deke. Way to boost my fragile
ego.”

He chuckled,
leaning in dangerously close. His breath feathered over her cheek, rustling the
wisps of hair that had pulled free from her ponytail. “Sweetheart, you’re the
only silver lining in this whole mess.”

Her face heated
again as his jaw brushed hers when he eased back, palming the brick behind her
head. The position virtually trapped her between him and the building, his
chest grazing hers as she inhaled deeply. Her pulse kicked up as her breasts
rubbed across his pecs, the slight friction making her nipples peak against her
shirt. Thank God she had on far too many layers for him to notice. She cursed
inwardly. Now wasn’t the time or the place to consider anything other than the
task at hand. But damn…every new case, every lost soul just seemed to be a
hollow echo of her life. Claimed a bit more of the part of her she’d tried to
lock away—keep safe. And she knew that, sooner or later, there’d be nothing
left of her. Nothing left for her to give to anyone other than an empty shell
of the person she’d once been.

She scanned the
area, expecting someone to start yelling suggestive comments, but no one seemed
to notice them. Or maybe everyone was simply too focused on the dead body
splattered across the pavement to spare them a passing glance.

Caitlyn schooled
her features. “Obviously, there’s something much deeper going on here than one
creepy note and a dead body. So spill.”

Deacon tilted
his head slightly, a hushed sigh sounding between them. “It’s…complicated.”

“Everything with
you is…complicated.”

He arched a
brow. “I could say the same thing about you, but…” He raked his free hand
through his hair. “For the record, this isn’t the first body. Or the first
note. There’s just one catch.”

“There always is.”
She moistened her lips, quirking her mouth into a hint of a smile. “And…”

“The truth is,
this is the thirteenth victim in a string of killings, all of which have the
same MO and the same type of cryptic note.”

“Thirteenth?
Strange how I haven’t heard anything about it. Not so much as a bulletin over
the wire. There a reason for that?”

“The murders
began about sixty years ago. The killer seems to target fit, young males in
their prime. There were six deaths, then nothing for about forty years. Then
suddenly, there were six more. An agent tied the two cases together, despite
the first file being buried beneath a bunch of high security red tape, but he
was killed during the investigation. The bureau pretty much back-burnered the
whole thing when the killings stopped as mysteriously as they’d begun. In fact,
there hasn’t been another case…until now.”

Kris Norris is a jack-of-all
trades who's constantly looking for her ever-elusive clone.

A single mother and slave to
chaos, Kris started writing some years back, and it took her a while to realize
she wasn't destined for the padded room, and that the voices chattering away
inside her head were really other characters trying to take shape. (And since
they weren't telling her to conquer the human race, she went with it. Though
she supposes if they had...insert evil laugh).

Kris loves writing erotic novels.
She loves heroines who kick butt, heroes who are larger than life, and sizzling
love scenes that leave you feeling just a bit breathless.

Caden Mackay would never bed a
Sutherland, let alone marry one. Bloody hell, what had possessed his twin
brother to propose to one of the she-devils? And what is Caden to do with the
Sutherland beauty who appears, as if by magic, in his library? The defiant
intruder is the enemy, but she is unlike any woman Caden’s ever known, and her
tantalizing curves and wide green eyes could tempt a monk. He must devise a way
to stop the wedding. But can he stop the desire that makes him long to make
Ariel Sutherland his own?

Ariel’s life had never gone the
way she’d hoped, but ending up in eighteenth century Scotland was a stretch,
even for her. If not for her dog, Scruffy, she might have thought she’d walked
into a romantic daydream. Especially since the object of her desire appears to
be entirely too virile. But can she find her way back to her time, before her
too-handsome Highlander makes her believe that love can conquer in any century?

Caden turned to
his cousin. “We’ll search the windows above. By now the coward has fled, but we
may yet find something to unmask our would-be assassin. Then we’ll attend to
your urgent matter.”

He drew Ariel
aside far enough that Ian couldn’t hear them. His expression screamed, I’d
rather fight a dozen well-armed warriors than be in debt to a Sutherland.
“Thank you for . . .” He simply stared at her.

“Saving your
life?” She waited. Nothing. “Kissing you?” She raised her eyebrows. “Just
trying to fill in the blank here.”

He blanched, but
then heat filled his eyes. “Aye.”

“Well, one of us
had to take the bull by the horns.” Okay, best not to dwell on that image. “I
mean, I was curious. I wanted to kiss you. No big deal. It was just a kiss.”

“Aye.”

“Will you stop
agreeing with me.”

His smile was
genuine and she felt it to the tips of her toes. Good heavens, the man had
charisma.

“I’ve nae had a
woman who wanted me to disagree with her.”

“Well, I’m not
like most women.” That was true enough. She’d never done the ‘let’s talk about
boys, clothes and makeup thing’ with a group of girls. Somehow, she’d never fit
in.

He smiled down
at her. “Aye.”

“There you go,
agreeing again.”

“Perhaps it’s
because you make yourself so agreeable.”

She couldn’t
contain the laughter that burst from her lips. “Really?” The word came out
between gasps. “Oh, I wish you could have been there to tell my teachers. Not
that they’d believe you. They thought I questioned everything.”

“Then they
didnae ken you.” His brows drew together. “I believe the stone was meant for
me, but just in case, I want you to take care.

Her laughter
died. “Why would anyone want to kill me?”

“Have you
offended anyone aside from Ranald, the Countess or Robertson since I met you?”

“I don’t-So, I
speak my mind. Is there a law against that in this century?”

“Once Upon a Time” are four of
Dawn’s favorite words, because she never knows where they will lead. She writes
stories to remind herself that even though things may seem bleak, there is
always the possibility of a “Happily Ever After.” If along the way she makes
readers smile, cry or see the magic in their everyday lives, then she’s done
her job.

Dawn’s written several
award-winning novels set in Georgian England and the Highlands – an era filled
with rules and intrigue. Her characters often defy “Society” as they pursue
love, run away, pursue, run away – well, you get the idea.

Then again, she might write
romance in order to do the research. What other profession encourages you to
sit in the audience at Harlequin’s Male Model search, and take notes, or just
sigh?

When she’s not writing, Dawn may
be found singing, gardening, learning to play the harp or wood carving. She
lives in a Victorian home in Upstate New York with her husband and very
independent cats.

Dawn hopes you’ll read her books,
and together you’ll bring to life characters that aren’t perfect, but have a
story to tell.

When inquisitive antique dealer
Cami Wilson learns she’s the revered offspring of an immortal mother and a
mortal father, it’s not just her hybrid status that has her all flustered. The
title comes with her very own super-sexy guardian.

Jaded immortal Joseph Carlisle
has only one thing on his mind; his sworn duty to protect the hybrid from those
who wish her harm. Anything else would be complicated. That is until they meet.

Chemistry sizzles between them
but there’s a problem—the hybrid’s curse. Cami’s touch, skin to skin, proves
near fatal to her and all immortals, Joseph included.

But the fated lover discover her
curse is the least of their concerns when a friend’s deadly betrayal threatens
to tear them apart forever.

He might have
just saved her life, but pinned to the freezing concrete by some wannabe hero
was not her idea of fun. Cami Wilson shoved the unyielding wall of his chest,
fighting not only him but the rising panic. ‘Get the hell off me!’

The guy remained
on top of her, using his large frame to protect her from the chunks of
smouldering metal hurtling to the ground around her. Icy air met with fiery
heat and smoke infused the atmosphere like the fifth of November, but there
were no sparkling fireworks to admire, only the flaming inferno, which seconds
earlier had been her car.

Maybe if she
hadn’t been so intrigued by the antique brooch she held in her hand or
distracted by the weird, periodic buzzing emitting from it, she might have seen
him coming at her in full, rugby tackle mode.

He lifted a
little, easing the crushing pressure on her ribs, but remained inches from her
face. Glacier-blue eyes met hers, captivating and intense. ‘Are you hurt?’

His gravelly
voice did something tingly to her insides. She went to speak, but no words
came. Nothing came to mind. Not the explosion. Not the contents of her shopping
trolley strewn all over Morrisons’ car park. Not the fact she could have been
killed. Somehow, none of it registered.

She gawped back
at him like a doe-eyed teenager, taking in the angular sweep of a jawline
peppered with dark stubble, and well-defined lips that parted invitingly as he
drew in his breath.

His gaze
lingered on her mouth in a breath-taking moment right out of one of those soppy
rom-coms she liked to watch.

Forget burning
cars and curious brooches… hel-lo, future husband.

Somewhere to her
left, an engine revved loudly, and he turned his head towards the sound.
Overlong, tousled hair tickled her cheek, and she got a faint whiff of citrus
shampoo.

Hmm, lovely…

A second later,
his attention returned to her. His grave expression burned with an urgency that
brought her down from the clouds. ‘Dammit! I asked if you were hurt.’

‘No, I…’

In a move so
swift it wasn’t humanly possible, he leapt to his feet and hauled her up beside
him. The brooch slipped from her gloved hand and landed on the ground.

The man cursed
under his breath and stooped to retrieve it. With an exasperated look, he waved
it in front of her as though she were a baby dropping her dummy for the hundredth
time. ‘You need to take more care of this. Don’t you know how important it is?’

Sudden
indignation flared. Cami snatched the jewel from his grasp and slipped it back
into her coat pocket. Okay, the guy rocked the sexy, just-rolled-out-of-bed
look, but his patronising attitude set her teeth on edge. What right did he
have to tell her what to do? And what on Earth did he know about a weird,
vibrating brooch she’d been given by her adoptive mother, the only clue she had
to her past?

About
the Author:

Abbey MacMunn writes paranormal,
fantasy and sci fi romance. She lives in Hampshire, UK with her husband and
their four children. She is a proud member of the Romantic Novelists’
Association.

When she’s not writing, she likes
to watch films and TV shows – anything from rom-coms to superheroes to science
fiction movies.